


A Job Well Done

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: House of Wax (2005), The Boy (2016 Bell), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning
Genre: Blow Job, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Domestic smut, Established Relationship, F/M, Fucking, Many - Freeform, Romance Anthology, Rough Sex, SO, Smut, gallons of the stuff, throatfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: Brahms Heelshire, Thomas Hewitt and Vincent Sinclair each give their s/o a mouthful.AFAB reader.
Relationships: Bo Sinclair/Reader, Bo Sinclair/You, Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You, Jason Voorhees/Reader, Jason Voorhees/You, Leatherface | Thomas Brown Hewitt/You, Lester Sinclair/Reader, Lester Sinclair/You, Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You, Vincent Sinclair/Reader, Vincent Sinclair/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 138





	1. Part 1 (Brahms, Thomas & Vincent)

** Brahms Heelshire **

You can tell he wants to ask you something.

He’s been tiptoeing around it for days, taking breaths that lead to nothing, stealing glances across the table before looking away like a furtive schoolboy attempting to talk to his crush. You don’t want to press him – he’ll talk when he’s ready – and it seems that moment has finally come. 

Curled up in one of the library armchairs, a book resting in your lap, you sense movement from the corner of your eye. One of the hidden panels in the wall opens just a crack, revealing the curly hair and pale mask of the man you share this enormous house with.

“Hey,” you say, marking your place with a finger and smiling. “What’s up?”

He inches into the room, his bare feet shuffling against the rug. He’s wearing a thin sweater over his usual grubby slacks, his long fingers tugging at the hem.

“Something you wanna say?” you gently prompt. “Or ask?”

He nods, dark curls bobbing. You set aside the book completely and turn in your chair to face him, giving your undivided attention. “Go ahead.”

“I want . . .” he’s using his childish voice, a sure sign that he’s nervous, or trying to wheedle something from you, “I want you to. . .”

He glances down, and your eyes trail to his hands. He’s palming at his crotch, another gesture you’re familiar with by now: the boy has a hard-on.

“Brahms,” you say, trying to sound reproachful but it’s a struggle to keep the smirk from your voice. “What did we talk about?”

His shoulders hunch, and you can almost _see_ the petulant scowl under his mask.

“Sex talk is for grown-ups,” he mutters, a hint of falsetto stubbornly lingering in his tone.

Unfolding your legs from beneath you, you cross the room and slip your arms around his shoulders, keeping a space between your body and the tent forming in his pants. He curls his fingers around your waist, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“Now,” you place a finger under his chin and gently turn his porcelain gaze to face you, “what did you want me to do?”

You can see a peony blush creeping up his neck into the tangled curls of his beard. He’s so cute when he’s flustered like this.

“I— I want . . .” he fists the fabric of your shirt. “Iwantyoutosuckme!”

The last part bursts out of him like someone forced it from his tongue, the sheer unexpectedness of it making you blink and burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Brahms stiffens and he turns to leave, but you grab his wrist and pull him back.

“No, no, sweetie,” you cup his face in your palms. “It’s okay. I just . . . wasn’t expecting that. Come on.”

Taking his hand, he allows you to lead him to the master bedroom.

You nod towards the double bed. “Lie down.”

The eagerness with which he complies is both comical and endearing, lying on the blankets like a toy soldier awaiting orders. You slip a hairband from your wrist and tie your hair in a loose ponytail. It actually surprises you he’s not asked for this before – it strikes you that perhaps being brought up by such a prim and proper woman as Mrs Heelshire would lead him to believe such an act was too dirty to request. He undoubtedly came across it in one of the magazines he was given in an attempt to placate his growing desires.

He’s almost vibrating with excitement as you rub his erection through the fabric of his pants, one hand popping the button and slowing pulling down the zip. He sighs as you stroke the slim length of his cock, your thumb brushing over the dark pink tip before taking him in. Brahms’s back arches off the bed and he whines long and loud, the entire head of his cock concealed inside your mouth and your fingers wrapped around the base, gently working him into a quivering frenzy. He’s too long to take in completely without gagging, but for now he seems happy for you to simply bob your head up and down, one hand fisted in your ponytail, the other spasming against the bed.

“Mmm . . . _y/n_ . . .” he moans, his voice creeping towards its childish timbre. You release his cock and look up at him reproachfully. He whimpers in exasperation.

“Your call, Brahms,” you say, trying to keep your voice level, but the sight of his cock – flushed and leaking for you – stirs your own arousal. 

“Y/n . . .” he repeats, altering his voice to an acceptable depth.

You take him back in almost to the hilt, and the sound he makes brings a moan to your own lips. You never thought giving a blow job would make you so damn wet. You know he isn’t going to last long, he’s already twitching in the way you know is a prelude to his completion.

“Uhh . . .” he’s panting now, fingers tapping on your head like he’s sounding out a rhythm. “Y/n, I’m going to . . . I’m . . .”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum around his length, and brace yourself as his cock pulses and your mouth is suddenly filled with warm fluid. You swallow as much as you can, but a few drops still stain the crotch of his pants. Ah well, you needed to do laundry, anyway.

You’re surprised to see Brahms’s mask is mostly off, the tip of his tongue wetting his parted lips. You smile lovingly at the face you don’t often get to appreciate.

“What d’you say?”

He blinks dazedly down at you, a crooked smile adorning his scarred features.

“Thank you.”

You pluck his hand from your head and kiss his fingers. “Atta boy.”

** Thomas Hewitt **

Despite the amount of mouths you have to feed, you like it when its your turn to make dinner, least of all because it means you get to eat something other than . . . well, _people_.

While you’ve kinda gotten used to the Hewitt special family recipe, you miss the dishes your mom used to make back home – pot roast, chicken fried steak, clam chowder. Tonight, you’ve decided to risk presenting the table with a meat-free dish – macaroni and cheese. You’re looking forward to surprising Thomas; he always likes it when you cook. You think it helps him feel more like a normal person (if anyone can be _called_ normal), to have his girlfriend set a delicious home-cooked dinner in front of him at the end of a long day.

You’ve just slid the pan of cheesy pasta into the oven when you hear the front door slamming shut, recognising Thomas’s heavy footfall. His broad frame fills the kitchen doorway and you smile up at him. He looks exhausted, the tension almost visible across his shoulders.

“Hey, honey,” you reach up to cup a hand to the leather hiding his cheek. “I missed you today.”

He leans down to kiss you softly, wrapping his arms around you and sighing like a deflating tire.

“C’mon,” you pat his back, linking your fingers through his and leading him through to the living room, shooing away a couple of piglets from where they’re napping on the couch like dogs. Another thing you’ve gotten used to in the past few months. You sit Thomas down on the sagging cushions and climb onto his lap, hoisting up your skirt and straddling his thick thighs. He places his large hands on your hips and rubs small circles into your skin with his thumbs. Your lips find his through the hole in his mask and you close your eyes, breathing in the smell of him. It might not be a ‘good’ smell to some, but to you it reminds you of the kind, loving man who has your heart.

You can feel the tense muscles in his neck, rubbing at them with your fingertips, and he moans in appreciation at your touch.

“Poor love. Hard day, huh?”

Your lips curl into a smile and you slide down his body until your knees touch the threadbare rug, your shoulders fitting snugly between his knees. He watches you, motionless, as you push aside the filthy apron and tug at the zipper on his pants. You rub the stiffening bulge inside his boxer briefs, marvelling like you always do at the sheer _size_ of him. It made sense that a guy of his height and stature would be well-endowed, but you still feel lucky as all Hell.

“See if I can ease you up a bit, hm?”

He glances towards the door, but you know Luda Mae and Hoyt won’t be home for a good hour more, and Monty is dead to the world in his chair out on the porch.

Your fingers don’t quite meet around his considerable girth, and your mouth hangs almost completely open to accommodate him. He lets out a low, rumbling moan, leaning his head back, threading his fingers through your hair and caressing your scalp with more tenderness than any outsider might expect from such a fearsome-looking man. His strong, musky taste coats your tongue, and you breath deeply through your nose as you try to take him in further. His cock-head nudges the back of your throat, but you resist the urge to gag; you’re trying to relax him, not stir him up. You massage his length with a gentle twisting motion of your wrist, coating the head with spit, your tongue lapping at the sensitive slit.

He murmurs the sounds you know to mean your name, the pressure from his hand on the back of your head enough to keep you in place, though not enough to cause discomfort. He can be rough when he wants to be, or when _you_ want him to be, but you also appreciate these quiet moments when he just wants to feel you on him, around him. When you remind him without words how much you adore every part of him – every scar, every blemish, every bit he’s learned to hate.

He thrusts shallowly into your mouth, his breath coming faster behind the mask. You place your hands firmly on his knees, anchoring yourself as you quicken pace. You can taste the bitterness of pre-cum slipping down your throat. He pushes his fingers through the gaps in yours, enveloping your hand almost completely. You love how much bigger he is than you – he could snap any bone in your body like a toothpick, and yet you trust him with more than just your life. Your heart, your happiness, you trust him with everything.

You break away just long enough to gasp how much you love him, how handsome he is, how much you want him, always. Your jaw aches from containing him, but you keep going, relishing the symphony of lustful sounds he makes when you suck in your cheeks around him. You know after this, he’ll want to fuck you properly, as soon as he’s able to get hard again. Maybe this time he’ll put a baby in you. When he finally cums, you swallow down every drop, despite the bitter taste. You never want him to think you’re disgusted by any part of him.

Once you’ve tucked him back inside his pants, he pulls you up and kisses you sloppily, not caring that he can still taste himself on your tongue. He takes your hand and places it over his heart; you can feel it pumping life through his body with a strong, steady beat. He brushes the skin of your chest, feeling for your own pulse. You press his palm flat against your breast and kiss him again, only stopping when the oven buzzer sounds.

Domestic life is bliss.

** Vincent Sinclair **

It’s been at least eight hours since Vincent went to the workshop, and since you’ve seen hide nor hair of him since, you can safely presume he’s not eaten nor drunk anything in that time. Bo says just to leave him, that he often goes without when he’s caught up in his work, but that’s not good enough for you. Just because the boys got by on bad habits before you arrived, doesn’t mean they can get away with it now.

You fix up a sandwich and grab a bag of chips and a soda before making your way down the slope towards the House of Wax. No luckless tourists have stopped by today, so Vincent will be working on one of his full-wax pieces. Even after all this time, you can’t deny that the figures still give you the creeps at times, especially at this time of day, when the sun is just starting to set. The shadows cast by the dying sunlight make their eyes seem too . . . alive. You hurry past and make your way carefully down the waxy steps to the basement workshop.

You find Vincent carving elaborate patterns into the curves of a vase. He glances up when you walk in, but doesn’t rise from where he’s hunched over the piece.

“Vinny,” you say sternly. “Stop that for a moment, you need to eat.”

**One second** , he signs.

You set the food down on the workbench and move to examine the poor soul currently trapped inside the wax machine. It’s a larger guy, who seems already dead. His eyes aren’t moving, at any rate. It’s surprising how quickly you can get used to a person’s hobbies, no matter how niche.

Vincent eases himself back into a standing position – having obviously been crouched there for a while – and comes over to you. He runs a hand through your hair and presses a waxy kiss to your cheek.

“Can I have a proper one?” you ask shyly. You know it’s a fifty-fifty shot. Despite your established (and consummated) relationship, he always seems nervous to reveal his face to you, though some days prove easier than others. Today he’s feeling less willing, it seems, as he shakes his head and hides behind the curtain of his hair.

You sigh but aren’t willing to give up just yet.

“Tell you what,” you say, dropping your voice to a seductive purr. “Give me a proper kiss, and I’ll do something else with my lips for you.”

He tilts his head, though you know he’s just being coy – he knows _exactly_ what you mean.

**You first.**

Feeling glad you wore your old jeans today, you drop to your knees on the dirty floor and start fiddling with the fastening of his pants. He’s wearing old black sweatpants today, which come down easily over his narrow hips. His thick, straight cock is soft, but a few encouraging strokes and licks from you coaxes it into life. Vincent gives a raspy moan and thrusts smoothly into your warm, wet mouth. You’re crouched just beneath the workbench, and he steadies himself with his hands on its edge, giving his hips free movement to jerk and thrust into you. The tip of his cock hits your uvula and you choke, the sound elicited from your throat seeming to make Vincent harden more. He twists his fingers through your hair, holding your head still, and begins rocking back and forth with a slow, accurate rhythm. Strings of spit fall from your lower lip to the floor, and your nose is full of the scent of the paraffin wax that stains his clothes.

Your hands have been folded meekly in your lap, but you now use them to still his hips, edging your neck forward until your nose touches the dark curls at the base of his cock. His hand strokes down your face and finds the soft bulge in your throat that indicates how far in he is. Keeping his fingers wrapped loosely around your neck, he thrusts jerkily into the heavenly softness of your mouth, eye closed behind the mask’s peephole.

He no longer questions the authenticity of your feelings for him – long since believed that it’s _him_ you want, not Bo. Handsome, perfect, insane Bo. You’ve seen his face and still love him, and he loves you too – especially at _this_ height.

He may have lasted longer, but lack of food seems to have weakened his stamina and his thrusts become more erratic, desperate, even. He knows you don’t particularly like to swallow, but that mischievous spark he shares with Bo is telling him to push his luck a little further this time. The head of his cock is right at the back of your throat when he cums, so you have little choice but to swallow every drop he gives you. You cough, but don’t complain. How could you, when he still has _his_ half of the bargain to uphold.

You remove the mask slowly, revealing his features inch by inch, planting soft kisses down the ruined side of his handsome face. When you finally reach his lips, he reciprocates your kisses without restrain, without question that it makes you feel just as good as it does him.

Bo may have the looks in the family, but Vincent has _you,_ which, to his way of thinking, makes him one particularly lucky bastard. 


	2. Part 2: Jason, Bo, Lester and Michael

** Jason Voorhees (2009) **

Summer is dying, the leaves changing to auburn and yellow, and Jason’s machete lies forgotten against the maple trunk. The tree stands alone in a large meadow of long grass, painted gold from the fading season, its crimson coat of leaves like fire against the azure September sky.

So many colours, yet the only shade you have eyes for is white.

You trace the patterns of Jason’s mask with your fingertips, like you don’t know them by heart already, couldn’t conjure the image in your mind from anywhere in the world. His hand rests easily on your skirt, the tip of one finger just brushing your thigh. You take his hand in yours and press it against the swell of your chest, leaning forward to plant a kiss at the place on his mask where his mouth would be.

“Jason.”

He’ll never grow tired of hearing his name spoken in your sweet voice. You begin to push your fingers beneath the hockey mask’s edge, pausing to kiss the exposed skin when his body freezes in fear. You’ve only seen his face once before – the first time you met – so you understand his hesitation to allow you a second view. When you get to his mouth, you kiss his twisted lips with enough passion to still his breath, and his hands grip tightly to your upper arms, holding you so close you can feel his heartbeat against your chest. The mask falls to the ground, gazing with empty eyes at the romantic scene playing out next to it. You feel so small, so safe, wrapped in his muscular arms, the heart beating beneath his torn shirt pulsing with vibrant life for you alone. Your hand trails down the bulky layers of clothing and settles on the crotch of his pants, causing him to shift in embarrassment at the hardness beneath. He’s still not used to the idea that his attraction to you won’t be met with disgust on your part. You chuckle and rub a little harder.

“It’s okay, baby.”

Struck by a sudden impulse, you get to your feet and look around the empty field to check that it’s . . . well, empty. The only sounds for miles are the rustling of leaves and the calling of birds; not even the faintest rumble of traffic reaches all the way out here. You pull your dress off in one quick movement, revealing the modest bra and boy-shorts you’re wearing underneath. You’ve never been this exposed under open sky before, and your heart dances as you unlatch the clasp at your back. You stand before him exposed to the world, the sun on your shoulders, the wind gently ruffling your hair. He rises to his full, considerable, height, his eyes never leaving yours, and backs you up against the trunk of the tree. The bark presses into your bare skin, imprinting the soul of the woods onto you as Jason leaves his own marks on the side of your neck.

“Hold still,” you whisper against his ear, dropping to your knees in the damp grass, your fingers already making short work of his belt buckle. He knows what you’re doing, although he can scarce believe it’s really happening. You, so pure, so perfect, blessing him with your beautiful lips and unconditional affection.

He’s even bigger than you thought he’d be. There’s no way you’re going balls-deep with _this_ one, that’s for sure.

“A shower _and_ a grower, huh?” you smirk up at him, appreciating the bashful expression that flits across his features.

He tastes like the wild, of soft earth and clear spring water. He bucks his hips involuntarily and the back of your head bumps the tree behind you, making you wince and rub your scalp. Leaning over slightly, Jason cups the base of your skull, protecting you from further injury.

“So thoughtful,” you smile, returning to your task, the shadow of his large torso now shielding you from any prying eyes. Not that anyone would need two guesses to know exactly what you were doing. You take him in as far as your throat will allow, and then a little further, so you gag a little on the thick head. He moans, deep and long, and you feel a surge of strange power – this giant oak of a man, brought to such tender passion by your hands, by your mouth. You run the flat of your tongue up the underside of his cock, feeling the bumpy veins against your sensitive tastebuds. You imagine how incredible it would feel to have this inside you, to have Jason pumping into you, spilling his seed into you, making you his and his alone.

You can tell he’s trying not to lose control, but his knees are shaking from the exertion of it. You’re determined to snap that final straw. Keeping one hand on his shaft, you lick at his balls, sucking them in and rolling them between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. He braces his free hand against the tree and begins to rock his hips in earnest, and you let your mouth drop open enough for cockhead to slide in and out freely.

He cums almost without warning, just two short spasms of his hips and your mouth is full of bitter-tasting seed, spilling out over your lips and dripping onto your exposed breasts. The sight of you coated with the evidence of his desires is almost too much for him. Swallowing what’s left on your tongue, you smile and wipe your lips as daintily as you can with your fingers.

Jason’s fingers hover over your chest, clearly wanting to help with the clear up but unsure if fondling your breasts is the best way to do it. Collecting as much of the translucent fluid on your finger, you put it to your lips and suck, keeping careful eye contact with the stunned man the entire time. You laugh as he tackles you to the ground, his eager lips already working their way down your body, large hands pushing your legs apart.

Looks like it’s your turn. 

** Bo Sinclair **

It’s not often that Bo condemns you to the garage basement, but when he does, you know its going to be a good few hours before you’re released. The man has the stamina of a jackrabbit and can go at least four times before he’s fully satisfied, or at least until he gets hungry and wants supper.

You try not to think of how many less compliant girls Bo has restrained in the chair as he tightens the straps around your wrists. Now that he has you, any victims are given straight to Vincent for the museum, but you know there have been many who have passed through his room first. As you watch him secure your ankles in place, you marvel at how such a beautiful countenance can conceal such a dark and twisted history. But, for your sins (and his), you love him.

“That not too tight for you, is it, sugar?” he asks. “Hate to mar this perfect skin of yours.”

His large hands cover your wrists over the buckles, the sleeves of his shirt riding up just enough for you to see his scars. You shake your head and he flashes a wicked smile. The chair has a crank on its side that adjusts the height, and you can only watch as he turns it round and round, the entire mechanism dropping you further down towards the floor. Ah, so he was in _this_ kind of mood. He’s already undoing his belt, the clinking of metal like an orchestral warm-up to the main event. Lifting one leg high, he plants it firmly on the other side of the chair so he’s basically straddling your shoulders, his head silhouetted against the ceiling light.

“You go ahead and open those pretty lips nice and wide,” he says, stroking his cock languidly and rubbing the tip against your mouth. You know he likes to sing for his supper, likes to work for it a little, so you don’t give up the goods immediately, rolling your head to the side and keeping your lips firmly closed. Bo growls and cups your chin firmly between his fingers.

“I said open,” he squeezes harder and your mouth opens a crack, giving him an in to force his cock onto your tongue and straight to the back of your throat. You cough and splutter a little, but he doesn’t want to break you when you’ve just started playing.

“Y’like that, huh, bitch?” he moans. “Y’like taking daddy’s cock?”

In this space, in this world of just you and him, the words send a thrill right down to your toes. He frames your head with both hands, keeping you in place as he fucks your mouth. The back of your head bumps against the chair and your fingers flex against their bonds.

Bo hisses through his teeth, gripping and releasing your hair as he thrusts. “Fuuuuuck, babe. You feel so goddamn good.”

Reaching behind him, he forces his hand under the waistband of your jeans, two thick digits probing your slit, coming away wet.

“Such an eager slut,” he grins, sucking your juices from his fingers with obscene pleasure. “You’re so wet for my cock in your little whore mouth.”

You whimper around him, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth, your tongue slick with precum. His rhythm is becoming more erratic, the dirty names coming thick and fast in the way they always do when he’s about to cum inside any of your holes. In these moments, he might call you a slut, a whore, a filthy bitch, but you’re _his_ , goddamn it, and he’ll mark you as his territory a thousand times to let the whole world know it.

You screw your eyes shut tight as he cums in the back of your throat, forcing his hips as far forward as possible to ensure you can’t spit any of it out. You’re gasping for air when he finally pulls away, mascara smudged under your eyes, your hair tangled from his grasping fingers.

His eyes turn soft as he bends down to kiss you, fingers toying with the straps. “You want outta these?”

You know the answer he wants to hear, and this time, you’re gonna give it to him. His grin turns wolfish as you shake your head.

“That’s my girl.” 

** Lester Sinclair **

“No offense, sweetie,” you say as you pull away from Lester, “but you kinda stink.”

He pulls a face and sniffs unceremoniously under his arms. “Ain’t no worse than Vinny.”

_Okay, not true_ – the worst Vincent smells like is an accident in a Yankee Candle shop. “Well, I don’t share a bed with Vincent. In the tub, mister.”

Since you moved into the Sinclair family home, the extra efforts Lester had made during your courtships seemed to have slipped slightly. Not that you minded, really – you loved him anyway – but it was nice when he wasn’t sporting Eau de Man Smell.

“Tell you what,” you purr, running your fingers down his shirt to rest over his belt buckle. “You hop in that tub, and I’ll do things that Vinny will hear from the House of Wax.”

Like a racoon into a garbage can, Lester rips off his shirt and hops in the direction of the bathroom, one foot already tangled in the leg of his jeans. By the time he emerges, skin pink from the hot water, towel wrapped around his waist, you’re waiting on the bed. His dark eyes sweep over your body, naked and ready for him, and the bed practically bounces off the wall in his eagerness to reach you.

“Lie on your back,” you instruct, pulling the towel apart to reveal his dripping cock. He watches you with thinly-veiled adoration as you start to lick the head, fingers squeezing and rubbing along the shaft.

“Baby,” he strokes your hair and you raise your head to meet his gaze. “Turn ‘round.”

A knowing grin on your face, you swivel to face his feet, giving him a front-row view of your soft, moist slit. His hands on your hips ease you backwards, far enough for his tongue to reach you, and you lean down to take his cock back into your mouth. At this angle, it slips easily to the back of your throat, just big enough to make you gag when you try and hold it there too long. You moan as his warm tongue licks at you, inside you, and the vibration of your voice sends a thrill running through his body. As you bob up and down, licking the head of his cock like a popsicle, he alternates between worshiping the folds of your pussy, and sucking on your clit. The sheer intensity of his administrations combined with the taste of him on your tongue has you almost whimpering with arousal. You take him in as far as you can and swallow around him, making his hips buck and drawing a choke from your throat.

“Ah shit, baby, that’s feels so _fucking_ good,” he moans, breath warm against your sex. You cum first. Lester feels the muscles inside you contracting again and against around his probing tongue, and soon after empties himself into your waiting mouth. Adjusting your position to right-side-up, you snuggle into his side, his arm holding you close, and breathe a contented sigh.

Sure, it might be a little annoying having to remind him to bathe, but if this was the pay-off, it was fucking worth it. 

**Michael Myers**

As the door slams shut, every muscle in your body tenses in the fight-or-flight response you’ve grown to ignore when around your boyfriend. When he’s a good or apathetic mood, you never hear him coming, but when his mood turns sour, the foundations of the house rattle.

He’s dripping blood as he looms in the doorway, six-foot-eight of chest-heaving, seething anger. Usually an evening of mindless slaughter is enough to sate him in a dark mood, but when that fails, it comes down to you. You love him – you’ll always love him – but in these moments, you can’t deny the fear that spikes at the back of your neck.

“Hey, babe,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “You . . . welcome home.”

You try not to wince as the bloodied knife in his hand sails through the air to land with a deadly * _THUNK*_ in the wall behind you, dark crimson oozing down the wallpaper. You’ll have fun trying to explain _that_ to the landlord.

“Michael—”

He crosses the room in three long strides, grabbing you by the elbow and yanking you to your feet.

“Ow! Hey, what’re you—”

Grabbing the back of your head in one enormous hand, he smothers your lips with his, forcing his tongue in deep in a kiss that tastes of blood, his teeth grinding cruelly against your mouth. It has the desired effect, stealing your voice as he drags you through to the bedroom and throws you down onto the bed. Still trying to catch your breath, you watch helplessly as Michael rips down the zip of his jumpsuit, pulling it down over his shoulders. His mask is thrown into a corner of the room, his long hair falling loose around his face. You catch a brief glimpse of his hard, muscular body, straining against the fabric of the black T-shirt he wears underneath, before he grabs a fistful of your hair and wrenches you onto your back, not hard enough to hurt, but enough for you to know you’re to Stay Put. Your head hangs over the side of the bed and, from your upside-down perspective, you can see him working his long, thick cock into hardness.

_Oh boy._

You just have time to open your mouth before he’s pushing inside, sliding easily to the back of your throat and then still further. Since you got together, your deepthroating skills have had to evolve quickly. Fisting handfuls of the bedsheets, you catch the smallest of breaths before his pace quickens, fucking your throat as he would your pussy, drawing out those deep, wet choking noises from you that get him even harder. He rumbles deep in his chest, hands wrapped around your throat to keep you in place, thumbs pressing on the spot where he can feel his cockhead bulging against your skin. He pulls out for a moment to let you gasp and cough before plunging in again, one hand at your neck, the other roughly fondling your breasts. You clutch at his thick wrist like a lifeline, nails digging in. Your eyes are streaming, your throat already raw from such a brutal attack, and you know this is just the first of many assaults.

Michael swears under his breath, voice low and animalistic, his body tensing like a marble statue as he cums directly down your throat, the taste barely touching your tongue.

Sinking to his knees beside the bed, you take a moment to catch your breath before rolling over and reaching out a tentative hand. His strong fingers grip yours – to stop you or feel your touch, you can’t tell – dark blond hair obscuring his face. Slowly, he draws your hand to his mouth, not to kiss, but to simply feel against his lips. It’s not always easy, having Michael Myers be the owner of your heart, but you’ve no desire to claim it back. Not when you know, in your soul, that you own his in return. He doesn’t push you away when you stroke his hair, even going to far as to move a little closer. 

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice hoarse. “You’re home now.” 


End file.
